Roccano didn't pause for a moment at the security chief's panicked report. He grabbed Corelia’s hand, pulling her away from the boat slip, his long strides setting a furious pace across the manicured lawns. "The penthouse," he stated, his voice a low rumble, "now." Tavio, nimble as a mountain goat, was already scrambling ahead, his small frame melting into the shadows cast by the grand, illuminated arches of the Consortium. The massive, gilded elevators of the main tower whisked them upwards, bypassing all intermediate floors until they reached Roccano's private aerie, a vast expanse of polished obsidian and sweeping glass that offered an unbroken panorama of Orolucce. Roccano's personal security team, a formidable quartet of silent, dark-clad figures, already stood at attention, their eyes like chips of granite. He barked orders in a clipped, rapid dialect Corelia barely understood, but the urgency was unmistakable. “Aurelion, secure all Montavi assets. Lock down the manor. No one in, no one out. Call in the Montavi house staff, question every last one.” He turned to Corelia, his gaze intense. “She’s trying to seize control, but she overplayed her hand. Montavi House has never been governed by public declaration, only by the Grand Council’s decree. Still, this is a calculated attack on your legitimacy.” Corelia, leaning back against the cool glass of the floor-to-ceiling window, watched the city lights twinkle below, considering. Her current state of lethargy warred with the brilliant spark of a true strategist. “A televised falsehood demands an equally theatrical counter-strike,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “Something spectacular. Something that leaves no room for doubt.” Her eyes, usually heavy-lidded, sharpened. “The Grand Masquerade. Tonight.” Before Roccano could respond, a chime echoed from a wall-mounted monitor. A live broadcast, featuring the Orolucce Socialite News, flickered to life. Across the display, Vianna Salto, impeccably painted despite streaks down her foundation, dabbed at her cheeks with a silk handkerchief. Her voice, thick with feigned distress, filled the opulent penthouse. "My poor, darling Cervan," Vianna sobbed, her words carefully enunciated for maximum melodrama. "Stolen away by that… that *ice queen*! After everything we've shared, after the love we built, she drags him into her dark schemes with that terrifying Veltro brute!" She sniffled delicately, looking straight into the camera. "My heart breaks for him, trapped in the clutches of such villainy!" Corelia rolled her eyes. “Even her tears are performative.” Tavio, who had been perched on a plush velvet settee, a small datapad balanced on his knees, suddenly let out a triumphant gasp. His fingers, usually a blur across a game controller, danced over the holographic keyboard. "Got it!" he yelled, his voice cracking with excitement. "She's broadcasting from her private studio. I can piggyback the feed!" With a flick of his wrist, a series of complex algorithms scrolled across the datapad. On the primary display, Vianna's weeping face froze, then pixelated for an instant. When the image cleared, Vianna was still there, but her voice had changed. The elegant studio backdrop remained, but the audio was now a distinctly different recording. It was Vianna's voice, alright, but devoid of any pretense, sharp and grating. "—he's absolutely useless!" the disembodied voice screeched. "Broke as a common street urchin, and honestly, the man is terrible in bed! Like a limp fish! All that bluster for nothing. And his 'private stash'? Child’s play! I had to manipulate him for every single trinket! Honestly, the thought of actually being tied to him… ugh!" The audio cut off abruptly, leaving Vianna frozen mid-sob before the cameras, her carefully constructed image utterly shattered by her own private thoughts, now broadcast to all of Orolucce. Roccano let out a low chuckle, a sound Corelia rarely heard, deep and genuinely amused. Tavio beamed, his chest puffed out with pride. "That," Roccano stated, glancing at Corelia with a smirk, "was rather satisfying." Corelia felt a warmth bloom in her chest, a pleasant contrast to the chill of the catacombs. Tavio was more than just a sweet boy; he was proving to be a formidable asset. She found herself smiling, a genuine, unburdened smile. “Now,” Roccano said, his amusement fading into sharp focus, “the Masquerade. Celli thinks she can use this grand spectacle to further her claims, but we’ll use it to expose her. First, we need to ensure your safety. And your presence must be… undeniable.” He gestured towards a discreet door Corelia hadn't noticed. “My personal wardrobe assistant will be here shortly, but I’d prefer to handle this myself. No one touches you but me tonight.” Corelia raised an eyebrow, a hint of playful challenge in her gaze. "Oh? And what do you know about dressing a lady for a gala?" Roccano’s lips twitched, a rare display of vulnerability. "Less than I'd like to admit. But I am… adaptable." He led her into the adjoining chamber, a dressing room of astonishing scale. A series of exquisite gowns, shimmering with precious silks and intricate lacework, hung suspended as if on invisible air. His eyes scanned the array, settling on a gown of Sun-Silk, the fabric a deep, luxurious azure that seemed to absorb and reflect light. It was cut scandalously low, with a bodice fitted with tiny gold eyelets. “This one,” he declared, pulling it from its display. He dismissed the waiting assistants with a curt wave, then turned to Corelia, the gown draped over his arm. "Come here." Corelia, feeling a blush creep up her neck, allowed him to position her. The gown slipped over her skin like cool water, the heavy silk pooling around her feet. The real challenge, however, was the corset-like lacing at the back. Roccano’s large, capable hands, accustomed to wielding power and influence, seemed utterly flummoxed by the delicate, intricate loops and crisscrossing ribbons. He grunted, his brow furrowed in concentration, as he attempted to tighten the stays. His fingers, usually so precise, fumbled, tangling the fine cords. “Confound it,” he muttered, his deep voice edged with frustration. “How do you people manage this?” Corelia chuckled softly. “It’s an art, Di’Veltro. One that asks for patience and a gentle touch.” He shot her a bewildered look. “Patience is not my strong suit when my intended is… under-dressed and vulnerable.” He leaned in, his breath grazing the hollow of her collarbone. “And you are anything but vulnerable, Corelia Montavi. You simply need… securing.” His large hands, now surprisingly deft, finally managed to cinch the lacing, pulling it taut and smooth. The gown molded perfectly to her figure, a second skin of opulent defiance. Just as Corelia turned to face him, feeling an unexpected heat rise between them, the dressing room door burst open. Tavio, a scroll of thick parchment clutched in his hand, rushed in with pale cheeks. “Corelia! Roccano!” he gasped, waving the document frantically. “I just intercepted this! Celli just invited the Chief Inspector to the Masquerade tonight—she’s planning to have you both executed for treason.”

Corsets and Counter-Strikes